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Schiller- Gallery. 


I 


■ 


SCH1LLER-GALLERY 


FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  DRAWINGS 
OF 

William  Kaulbach, 

C.  Jaeger,  A.  Mueller,  Th.  Pixis,  R.  Beyschlag, 
W.  Lindenschmit. 


WITH  EXPLANATORY  TEXT  BY  E.  FOERSTER. 


NEW  YORK, 

STROEFER  & KIRCHNER. 

859.  BROADWAY. 


Preface. 


YY  hen  the  masterly  pencil  of  Williavi  Kaulbach 
offered  us  his  ideal  conceptions  of  the  female  charac- 
ters of  Goethe ; and  thereby,  as  it  were,  embodied 
the  thoughts  of  the  poet,  — the  public  received  the 
precious  gift  not  only  with  general  sympathy;  but 
with  loud  acclamation.  The  art  of  antiquity  revealed 
the  high  denizens  of  Olympus — that  of  the  middle- 
ages,  the  Saints  and  Martyrs  of  the  Christian  church — 
even  the  inexplicable  Trinity — and  thereby  aroused 
the  faithful  to  adoration,  — in  the  same  manner  has 
Kaulbach  achieved  a conquest  in  the  field  of  modern 
German  art,  which  seems  destined  to  produce  magni- 
ficent fruits.  During  the  last  century  Germany  pro- 
duced men,  whose  high  intellectual  flights,  whose 
words  of  thunder  awakened  the  people  from  that 
lamentable  state  of  lethargy,  which  succeeded  the 
terrible  religious  wars  of  that  country.  These  illus- 
trious men  were  inspired  with  the  one  great  senti- 
ment: 


‘‘We  will  be  a united  People,  in 
the  bonds  of  true  brotherhood.” 


I 


2 


PREFACE. 


Certainly  these  master-minds  have  left  a treasure, 
the  like  no  other  nation  possesses — a legacy,  sacred 
and  precious,  and  yet  accessible  to  every  one,  anxious 
for  its  possession.  It  is  by  no  means  a rare  occurrence 
that  the  productions  of  great  men  have  long  remained 
to  the  multitude  an  unexplained  mystery;  which  to 
unravel  is  the  office  of  the  twin-sisters:  “Science 
and  Art.”  Gladly  did  the  publisher  of  the  Goethe- 
Gallery  offer  the  latter  a welcome  hand,  in  agreeing 
to  publish  an  illustration  to  the  works  of  that  poet, 
whom  the  Germans  above  all  regard  as  a truly  nation- 
al one- -to  bring  his  lofty  thoughts  again  nearer 
home  to  us,  in  unfolding  to  our  wondering  eyes,  now 
the  magnificent  plains  of  Elysium;  and  again  the 
homely  towns,  and  simple  family-life  of  the  German 
people.  The  more  arduous  the  task  appeared  to 
clothe  the  sublime  ideals  of  this  poet  in  visible  forms; 
manifesting  thereby  their  intrinsic  value — to  make 
them  generally1  understood  — great  and  laudable  as 
such  an  object  ever  must  be — it  was  impossible  to 
entrust  to  one  single  hand  the  execution,  and  hence 
several  artists  were  invited  to  cooperate.  It  was  not 
only  requisite  to  shoAV  the  _ female  characters  of 
Schiller  in  special  and  characteristic  scenes — it  was 
necessary  to  produce  to  the  most  important  pass- 
ages of  his  poems,  his  dramatic  and  prose  works, 
illustrations  in  the  best  and  highest  sense  of  the  word. 

The  publisher  inviting  younger  artists  to  cooperate 
in  the  execution  of  the  work,  afforded  them  an  ex- 
cellent opportunity  to  compete  for  the  prize;  and  to 


PREFACE. 


3 


profit  by  the  example  of  the  great  master  of  the 
Goethe-  Gallery , to  whom  this  work  is  also  in  some 
measure  indebted.  Different  as  the  works  of  Goethe 
and  Schiller  are  the  one  from  the  other — they  belong 
nevertheless  indivisibly  together , and  supplement 
each  other.  Thus  it  is  contemplated  that  the  Schiller- 
Gallery , not  only  in  its  external  appearance,  but  in 
real  value — shall  be  the  worthy  sister  of  the  female 
characters  of  Goethe.  The  publisher  flatters  himself 
to  offer  the  public  a great  national  work, — an  imperish- 
able memorial  of  the  great  poet — who  in  view  of  the 
high  calling  of  the  artist  thus  exclaimed: 

‘‘Modestly  arisen  from  clay  or  stone — 

Creative  Art  embraces  in  silent  conquest 
The  immeasurable  region  of  the  mind! 

What  in  the  field  of  knowledge  is  discovered — 

Is  yours, — for  you  it  is  conquered. 

The  treasures  heaped  up  by  the  thinker, 

Will  he  enjoy  only  when  embraced  by  you, 

When  his  science,  ripened  into  beauty, 

Becomes  ennobled  to  a work  of  art !” 


i 


Maria  Stuart. 


Maria  Stuart. 


H istory  will  always  regard  Elizabeth  the  greatest 
of  English  Queens.— During  her  reign  the  national 
church  was  established,  which  prevented  the  sangui- 
nary religious  conflicts  raging  on  the  continent  of 
Europe.  She  received  favorably  those  who  had  es- 
caped persecution  in  France  and  Holland;  encouraged 
these  refugees,  and  laid  the  foundation  to  the  great- 
ness of  English  industry.  From  the  wrecks  of  the 
Spanish  Armada  arose  the  mighty  fleet  of  England, 
— and  in  Elizabeth’s  time  the  first  English  colonies 
were  established  in  America.  Admiring  the  great 
mind  which  achieved  these  memorable  things, — we 
are  on  the  other  hand  compelled  to  turn  aside  from 
the  means  employed, — and  are  constrained  to  confess: 
“that  Elizabeth  possessing  the  masculine  virtues  of 
rulers,  inherited  the  blemishes  only  of  her  own  sex.” 
To  portray  such  a female,  and  to  exhibit  a picture, 
in  which  majesty,  power,  and  concern  for  the  people, 
were  closely  associated  with  malice,  revenge,  and  a 
contemptible  jealousy, — this  was  a task  which  only 
men  like  Schiller  could  accomplish.  Yet  it  was  of 


8 


MARIA  STUART. 


scarcely  less  difficulty  to  give  a visible  picture  of 
such  an  extraordinary  lady — and  to  achieve  this,  per- 
haps no  one  possessed  better  qualifications  than 
William  Kaulbach. — The  lofty  brow  of  Elizabeth 
bespeaks  a mind  capable  to  change  the  aspect  of 
two  hemispheres, — eyes  which  seemed  to  read  the 
most  secret  thoughts  of  others,  and  discern  by  a 
single  glance  if  any  one  in  her  presence  was  an 
opponent,  or  a willing  instrument  to  further  her  plans. 
Her  firmly  closed  lips  reveal  determination  and  seve- 
rity in  judging  others.  This  figure  is  every  inch  a 
Queen — and  more  than  her  splendid  attire,  this  proud 
bearing  at  once  announces:  “The  powerful  occupant 
of  England’s  throne.” — But  the  artist  has  also  shown 
us  the  purely  human  side  of  the  character  of  this 
great  Queen;  and  selected  the  moment  when  the 
unfortunate  Maria  Stuart — after  vainly  endeavouring 
to  move  the  heart  of  her  enemy — exclaimed  in  impo- 
tent rage: 

‘‘The  noble-hearted  Britons, 

Are  shamefully  deceived  by  a wary  juggler.” 

Such  language  Elizabeth  had  never  heard  before. 
The  vain  praise  of  Leicester  resounded  yet  in  her  ears  : 

“Never  were  you  for  a victory  of  beauty 
Better  equipped  than  even  now — ” 

Conscious  of  her  triumph,  she  had  entered  the 
park,  and  here  a defenceless  woman  had  insulted  her. 
Speechless,  she  presses  hew  right  hand  upon  her 
heart,  as  if  a dagger’s  point  had  pierced  it — and 
with  her  left — as  if  bent  upon  revenge — she  seizes 


MARIA  STUART. 


9 


a rose-tree,  and  kills  a flower  before  its  bloom.  In 
this  state  of  rage  she  disregards  her  own  pain  and 
seems  unmindful  of  her  favourite  falcon,  which  fright- 
ened flutters  at  her  feet.  But  how  appears  Mary? 
She  is  not  a meek  suppliant,  but  the  innocent  con- 
demned woman,  in  whom  again  the  memory  of  her 
own  majesty  is  aroused;  and  who  might  well  ex- 
claim : 

“If  justice  ruled — you  would  be  at  my  feet 

For  I am  your  rightful  Queen!” 

This  sentiment  seems  visible  in  the  flaming*  eye; 
and  pointing  to  herself,  she  raises  her  left  hand 
indignantly  over  Elizabeth.  The  ancient  rancour 
nestled  in  her  breast  has  burst  its  fetters;  and  triumph- 
ing for  the  moment  over  her  rival,  she  laughs  at 
her  personal  danger,  and  is  deaf  to  the  wise  counsel 
of  her  trusty  attendant — nor  does  she  regard  the 
secret  signs  of  honest  Shrewsbury, — whose  last  ray 
of  hope  disappears  in  sight  of  the  violent  behaviour 
of  the  dethroned  Queen  of  Scotland.  The  contrast 
between  the  silent  rage  on  the  one  side — and  the 
outbreak  of  long  suppressed  hatred  on  the  other — 
could  have  hardly  been  better  represented  than  in 
this  master-piece  of  Kaulbach.  Yet  whilst  we.  here 
recognise  in  Elizabeth  the  picture  of  offended  pride, 
and  thirst  for  swift  revenge — and  the  noble  anger 
of  Mary;  together  with  the  faithful  attachment  of 
the  aged  nurse, — we  are  forcibly  struck  by  the  miser- 
able figure  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester.  He,  the  para- 
mour of  two  Princesses — he,  who  betrayed  beauty, 

2 


IO 


MARIA  STUART. 


in  order  to  preserve  power — here  he  stands,  like  a 
boy  who,  caught  in  an  evil  act,  dares  not  venture  to 
raise  his  eyes.  This  momentous  scene  in  which  a 
human  being  sees  the  last  ray  of  hope  vanish— is 
enclosed  with  the  sombre  park,  and  the  strong  castle 
of  Fotheringhay  is  towering  over  the  tops  of  the 
trees.  They  give  a finish  to  the  sublime  quietude 
and  simplicity,  and  afford  a sure  test  of  genuine  art. 


The  Maid  of  Orleans. 


r 


The  Maid  of  Orleans. 


1 here  have  been  at  all  times,  and  in  all  countries 
females,  who  in  the  wars  of  their  native  land,  either 
took  a leading  part,  or  at  least  assisted  in  the  deadly 
strife.  The  daughters  of  Spain  and  the  Tyrol  fought 
at  the  side  of  their  countrymen.  Prohaska  fell  fight- 
ing in  the  corps  of  Luetzow — and  during  the  great 
war  in  America,  women  of  the  North  entered  the  ranks 
of  the  army.  We  may,  however,  affirm  that  none 
of  all  heroines,  has  been  more  surrounded  with 
the  splendor  of  romantic  chivalry,  than  Joan  d’Arc 
— remarkable  even  in  the  most  prosaic  accounts  of 
her  history.  Yet  notwithstanding  this,  a long 
time  elapsed  ere  the  well  deserved  crown  of  immor- 
tality was  offered  to  the  maiden.  France  left  it  to 
an  Englishman,  to  sing  the  praises  of  the  foe  of 
his  own  nation — nay  more,  one  of  the  greatest 
poets  of  France  did  not  hesitate  to  ridicule  the 
bold  heroism  of  Joan.  It  was  reserved  for  Schiller 
to  arouse  again  the  slumbering*  enthusiasm  in 
behalf  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans  by  a magnificent 
poem.  Since  then  art  also  has  erected  numerous 
monuments  in  honour  of  the  Maid.  Most  of  therm 


i4 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS. 


however,  represent  Joan  either  on  the  height  of  for- 
tune,— or  else  portray  the  terrible  end,  which  fana- 
ticism, enmity,  and  superstition  had  prepared  for  her. 
Different  from  these  is  Kaulbach’s  picture — who, 
giving  us  the  commencement  of  Joan’s  heroic  career, 
affords  us,  at  the  same  time,  the  key  to  this  myste- 
rious phenomenon.  A peaceful  shepherdess,  far  remov- 
ed from  scenes  of  strife  and  battle,  places  herself 
at  the  head  of  the  desponding  army — and  in  the  hour 
when  all  seemed  lost — leads  them  to  victory,  and 
restores  to  the  king  his  lost  crown.  Joan  acknow- 
ledged herself  to  be  merely  the  instrument  of  heaven; 
and  in  that  sense,  both  poet  and  artist  represent  her. 
Only  the  command  from  on  high  could  steel  the  arm 
of  the  feeble  maid,-— from  above  she  received,  instead 
of  the  shepherd’s  staff — a two-edged  sword.  Only 
the  will  of  heaven  induced  her  to  renounce  the  quiet 
joys  of  married  life,  to  banish  pity  from  her  bosom, 
and  love  from  her  heart.  Thrice  did  the  blessed  vir- 
gin appear  to  her  under  the  sacred  oak  at  Dom 
Remi,  and,  when  Joan  still  doubting  her  strength 
hesitated  to  execute  the  high  behest,  reveal  herself 
as  the  Queen  of  heaven;  giving  her  the  banner 
which  she  was  to  carry  in  front  of  the  victorious 
army.  It  is  still  night,  and  only  some  feeble  streaks 
of  light  in  the  far  east  announce  the  dawn  of  day. 
In  spite  of  paternal  warnings  Joan  had  again  spent 
the  night  under  the  favorite  oak,  when  lo ! a heavenly 
light  appears,  and  on  a golden  cloud  the  virgin  des- 
cends, and  arms  the  maid  against  the  foes  of  the 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS. 


15 


oldest  throne  in  Christendom.  In  silent  ecstacy  the 
maid  kneels  before  the  Saint,  receiving  the  benedic- 
tions of  her  blessed  son.  What  charming  sweetness 
in  the  face  of  Mary,  with  what  loving  sympathy 
she  regards  the  Maid  devoted  to  her  service.  And 
Joan? — See  how  her  countenance  reflects  the  enthu- 
siasm for  the  cause  she  has  espoused!  and  yet  again 
the  whole  attitude  evinces  that  modesty,  with  which 
she  refused  every  praise.  Through  the  airy  attire 
we  recognise  the  noble  form  and  figure  of  the  Maid 
who  changed  the  hostility  of  Lionel  into  love;  and 
overcame  the  relentless  foe  within  the  British  camp, 
— the  Duke  of  Burgundy — who  being  reconciled  and 
led  by  her  into  the  presence  of  the  king  exclaimed: 

“Oh  she  can  do  with  me  whate’er  she  likes; 

My  heart  is  in  her  hands  like  melting  wax.” 


The  Robbers. 


1- 


>> 


The  Robbers. 

(Act.  IV.  Scene  IV.) 

The  artist  who  engaged  to  portray  this  grand  scene 
in  the  production  of  Schiller  “The  Robbers”,  which 
he  wrote  in  his  younger  years  and  which  has  often 
been  blamed,  undertook  a difficult  task.  He  has  howe- 
ver in  our  opinion  acquitted  himself  admirably.  Not 
selecting  the  wild  and  romantic  figures  of  the  brigands 
nor  a scene  with  lively  and  varying  action — he  brings 
only  “Karl  and  Amalie”  upon  the  stage  at  the  mo- 
ment when  their  hearts  wage  a fierce  conflict  for 
their  love.  Outwardly  all  seems  calm,  but  it  is  the 
calmness  which  precedes  the  destructive  tempest. 
Amalie  is  earnestly  examining  Karl’s  likeness,  regard- 
ing it  as  a talisman  against  the  danger  which  threat- 
ens her  constancy  from  the  attention  of  the  stranger 
count. — She  refuses  to  believe  her  foreboding  heart 
that  he  whom  she  fears  is  her  lover  himself, — she 
does  not  trust  her  eyes  which  in  the  hard  and  wea- 
therbeaten face  recognise  the  features  of  “Karl” — 
nor  her  ear  which  in  the  words:  “You weep,  Amalie” 
— hears  his  voice.  How  could  Karl  be  so  near  and 


3: 


20 


THE  ROBBERS. 


not  make  himself  known? — Hence  she  refuses  to  look 
again  at  the  seeming  resemblance  so  perilous  to  her. 
She  will  not  notice  that  he  has  entered  the  garden 
and  mournfully  regards  her.  At  no  time  appears 
Karl  Moor  a greater  hero  than  now,  — nowhere  is 
the  nobility  of  his  soul  more  conspicuous  than  in 
this  scene,  when  he  denies  himself  in  order  to  spare 
his  pure-hearted  Amalie  the  pain  to  find  in  her  return- 
ed  lover  a deeply  degraded  being — when  he  for  ever 
renounces  her  love,  having  assured  himself  of  her 
faithfulness.  This  is  unquestionably  the  heaviest  punish- 
ment he  receives,  and  he  inflicts  it  on  himself  volun- 
tarily. This  strife  within  himself,  this  alternate  feel- 
ing of  pleasure  and  pain  is  well  depicted  in  every 
feature. 

Notwithstanding  the  sombre  looks,  the  firmly  closed 
lips — the  Artis  thas  succeeded  in  infusing  some  traces 
of  softriess.  The  figure  of  this  brigand-chief  appear- 
ing behind  the  bushes  is  indeed  that  of  a hero! 
Only  such  a one  could  rule  the  wild  fellows  of  the 
Bohemian  forest, — only  such  a one  could  gain  the 
love  of  Amalie. — And,  as  in  Jaeger’s  later  illustrations, 
so  we  are  also  in  this,  delighted  with  the  admirable 
finish  of  the  whole  as  well  as  of  its  details.  The 
mild  and  innocent  features  of  Amalie  and  the  hard- 
ened countenance  of  the  Robber — her  simple  attire 
and  his  costly  garments — are  beautifully  contrasted. 
We  are  not  surprised  at  the  heavy  sword  which 
dangles  at  the  Robber’s  side— nor  at  the  brace  of 
pistols  in  his  belt;  for  he  is  ready  to  depart — the 


THE  ROBBERS. 


21 


horses  are  near  to  take  him  away  from  the  home  of 
his  early  youth.  He  cannot  any  longer  live  there 
since  society  has  cast  him  out  and  he  has  become  its 
curse.  Once  more  he  will  see  Amalie;  once  more  hear 
her  sweet  voice,  reminding  him  of  the  happiness  he 
has  lost.  After  this  he  is  resolved  to  return  to  his  misery 
until  the  avenging  arm  of  justice  shall  punish  his  mis- 
deeds. The  stringed  instrument  in  the  foreground  re- 
minds us  of  the  beautiful  thought  of  Schiller  —that? 
though  the  heart  may  resist  words,  — music  and  song 
are  irresistable.  Not  the  complaint  for  the  absent  one, 
not  even  the  words  of  tender  love  could  move  Karl 
to  reveal  himself:  but  when  Amalie  seizes  the  lute 
and  commences  a favorite  song  which  they  in  happier 
times  had  often  sung  together — his  strength  fails  him 
— and  he  replies  to  her  as  Hector: 

“Go,  dear  wife,  fetch  me  my  lance, 

Let  me  hasten  to  the  wild  war-dance.” 


Don  Carlos. 


Don  Carlos. 

(Act  III.  Scene  IX.) 

Even  at  this  day  the  mentioning  of  the  name  of 
Philip  II.  fills  us  with  horror;  calling  to  mind  the 
bloody  fields  of  Holland,  and  the  smoking  stakes  of 
Spain,  by  which  the  inquisition  celebrated  its  seeming 
triumphs.  All  qualities  which  might  conduce  to  mak- 
ing a ruler  great  and  happy,  were  in  this  King’s 
possession.  Power,  wealth,  and  more,  a sagacious 
mind  and  an  iron  will.  Little  did  these  advantages 
avail.  Philip  tried  to  keep  fleeting  phantoms.  All 
his  great  wealth  could  not  purchase  one  faithful  heart. 
His  intellect  was  checked  by  superstition, — and  his 
iron  will,  a perpetrator  of  horrid  cruelties.  Though 
he  destroyed  an  empire  and  burnt  a people,  his 
work — unity  of  faith — and  the  exclusive  dominion  of 
Spain  in  Europe,  perished  with  him  when  in  Sep- 
tember 1598  he  closed  his  eyes  in  death.  A dramatic 
representation  of  such  a character  was  no  easy  task. 
Our  poet  has  accomplished  it  in  showing  us  in  Philip 
the  antagonism  of  the  ruler  and  the  man. — Engaged 
to  execute  his  schemes  he  is  tortured  by  a terrible 
suspicion  concerning  the  Queen,  his  wife.  Policy  had 

4 


26 


DON  CARLOS . 


brought  about  this  alliance  with  the  former  bride  of 
his  son.  This  son  who  approaches  his  father  with 
filial  love,  is  regarded  by  Philip  a dangerous  foe — 
and  consequently  is  disowned.  The  virtue  of  Elizabeth 
which  in  the  gardens  of  Aranjuez  had  won  the  King’s 
regard,  appears  now,  since  Alba  and  Domingo  have 
calumniated  her,  very  questionable  to  him.  Believing 
himself  deceived  by  his  own  wife,  for  whom  alone- 
he  preserved  some  human  sympathy — he,  a King,  in 
whose  dominion  the  sun  does  never  set — discovers 
himself  poorer  than  any  of  his  meanest  subjects. 
This  conflict  between  the  ruler  and  the  man,  between 
hatred  and  love,  is  the  basis  of  this  composition. 
Offended  pride  is  uppermost,  and  opened  the  gates 
to  actual  brutality.  This  we  notice  in  the  expression 
of  the  countenance,  the  clenched  fist  of  Philip — a 
man  just  now  entirely  the  slave  of  wild  passions, 
from  whom  we  turn  our  eyes  with  disgust.  On  the 
other  hand  we  are  all  the  more  attracted  by  the 
noble,  dignified  appearance  of  Elizabeth.  Hers  is  a 
god-like  head,  an  ideal  of  female  beauty.  She,  con- 
scious of  her  purity  of  heart  and  mind,  looks  with 
contempt  upon  this  scene.  Holding  and  protecting 
her  little  innocent  daughter  in  her  arms,  Elizabeth 
appears  entirely  as  a mother  whose  duty  makes  her 
say  to  her  brutal  husband: 

“This  child  atJeast, 

I must  secure  against  ill-usage-,” 

This  illustration  of  Jaeger’s  is  a master-piece  of 
technic.  How  beautifully  are  the  garments  drawn; 


DON  CARLOS. 


27 


with  what  care  the  furniture  of  the  apartment — the 
clock,  the  candle-sticks,  and  the  tapestry  in  which 
the  monogram  of  Philip’s  name  is  woven.  This  royal 
chamber  affords  us  a glimpse  at  the  magnificence 
of  the  palace  and  in  general  at  the  luxury  of  the 
XVI.  century.  What  a careful  attention  to  minute 
details  and  yet  what  admirable  harmony  in  the 
whole  composition!  Notwithstanding  -the  agitated 
scene,  there  is  a calmness  prevailing  in  the  picture 
which  the  Artist  produced  by  a beautiful  chiaroscuro. 


William  Tell. 


William  Tell. 

No  drama  has  secured  to  Schiller  so  much  the  affec- 
tion  of  his  nation  and  none  has  more  justly  desig- 
nated him  by  the  name  of  the  first  singer  of  liberty 
than  “William  Tell”.  All  he  desired  for  Germany 
or  demanded  of  her  he  puts  before  her  by  a magni- 
ficent example.  Here  he  praises  his  nation  and  here 
reproves  their  conduct,  especially  that  inherited  sin 
— ‘‘disunion”.  Schiller  was  unfortunately  not  spared 
to  witness  the  enthusiasm  kindled  by  his  words  in 
all  Germany  and  urging  youth  and  man  to  high 
deeds  when  nine  years  later  his  Tell  was  publicly 
performed.  Yet  he  escaped  also  the  painful  dis- 
appointment to  see  his  words  so  soon  forgotten. 
Ag'ain  and  again,  however,  was  heard  the  outcry: 
“Be  united,  united,  united!”  No  public  feast,  no 
serious  deliberation  did  pass  without  one  or  another’s 
calling  to  mind  these  weighty  words.  At  length  an 
urgent  desire  is  manifested  to  follow  the  words  of 
the  poet— a desire  at  last  accomplished.  Art  has 
seized  upon  this  legacy  of  Schiller,  and  Jaeger,  the 
Artist,  has  furnished  in  the  death -scene  of  Atting- 


32 


WILLIAM  TELL . 


hausen  a picture  which  should  not  be  wanting  any- 
where; a constant  monitor  of:  “Be  united,  be  one!” 
The  composition  is  so  clear  and  intelligible  that  an 
explanation  seems  hardly  required.  Examine,  however, 
the  powerful  figure  of  Stauffacher,  whose  look  war- 
rants his  will  henceforth  to  think  only  of  the  liberty 
of  his  country  which  the  dying  man  has  solemnly 
laid  to  his  heart.  Confidently  does  Walter  Ftirst 
lean  upon  him,  whilst  regarding  with  special  sym- 
pathy the  dying  leader.  As  to  young  Tell,  the  Artist 
has  somewhat  deviated  from  the  text.  Here  the 
youth  is  not  kneeling,  but  stands  in  an  almost  defying 
attitude.  In  him  we  recognise  the  heroic  spirit  of  the 
father  and  a worthy  specimen  of  the  rising  genera- 
tion, worthy  representatives  of  their  ancestors. 


The  Bride  of  Messina. 


5 


The  Bride  of  Messina. 


W hilst  the  Religion  of  Christ  reveals  God  as  a 
loving  yet  severe  father  and  thereby  places  the 
fate  of  man  in  his  own  hands — the  Mythology  of 
Greece  makes  mortals  the  tools  and  even  the  toys 
of  the  gods.  Men  cannot  escape  their  doom  whatever 
their  conduct  may  be.  This  view  which  reached  by 
Sophocles  to  the  highest  poetical  sanction,  Schiller  also 
attempted  to  raise  to  validity  in  a drama,  whose  charac- 
ters more  suffering  than  acting,  belong  already  to  the 
Christian  era.  There  is  no  doubt  that  Schiller  per- 
ceived the  difficulty  of  the  task.  He  could  hardly 
avoid  the  appearing  of  pagan  figures  in  the  train  of 
Christianity  which,  though  historically  correct,  appears 
to  us  almost  as  strange,  as  the  introduction  of  a cho- 
rus in  a modern  drama.  Our  Poet  became  thus 'the 
originator  of  the  romantic  tragedy  of  fate  which 
during  the  first  two  decennaries  of  our  century  made 
much  noise,  but  ultimately  degenerated  in  such  a 
manner,  that  Platen  chastised  its  pretensions  with 
bitter  irony.  Our  Artist  selected  the  passage  from 
Don  Manuel’s  tale  about  finding  his  Bride: 


36  THE  BRIDE  OF  MESSINA. 

“The  hunting -spear  ready  to  throw — , 

She,  however,  gazed  with  her  large  eyes  beseechingly 
At  me! — thus  stood  we  silent  opposite  each  other, — 

How  long; ” 

This  choice  must  be  considered  more  fortunate 
than  Kaulbach’s — who  selected  the  scene,  poor  in 
action,  in  which  the  Queen  asks  heaven  to  reconcile 
the  hostile  brothers.  It  afforded  Jaeger  an  oppor- 
tunity to  furnish  a picture  full  of  grace  and  freshness 
from  this  otherwise  dull  tragedy.  Attractive  and 
full  of  womanly  gracefulness  is  Beatrice, — before  her 
stands  lively  and  full  of  youthful  arrogance  Don 
Manuel  to  whose  hitherto  unbridled  passions  she 
offers  a resistance  he  never  knew  before.  These  two 
figures  present  an  effective  contrast  which  is  still 
kept  up  by  the  flying  fown,  and  the  hound  eager 
after  prey.  Regarding  the  action  which  so  faithfully 
reflects  the  Poet’s  words,  we  abstain  from  any  com- 
ments. The  whole  is  easily  understood.  The  Roman  * 
dress  of  Don  Manuel,  the  fire  of  his  eyes,  his  bushy 
black  hair,  the  tropical  vegetation,  and  still  more  the 
peculiar  illumination , bear  testimony  to  the  inge- 
niousness with  which  the  Artist  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  the  story. 


Wallenstein. 


-GNfrt). 


Wallenstein. 


This  largest  and  most  sublime  drama  of  Schiller, 
the  greatest  effort  of  his  genius,  is  essentially  dis- 
tinguished from  his  other  dramatic  productions.  The 
latter  may  not  improperly  be  called  offsprings  of  his 
fancy,  whereas  the  trilogy  of  which  this  drama  is 
the  third  part,  is  the  result  of  his  research.  Don 
Carlos,  Maria  Stuart,  Joan  of  Arc,  and  Tell,  have, 
indeed,  an  historical  background;  but  Schiller  bor- 
rowed the  names  only,  not  the  characters  of  his 
heroes  from  History;  whilst  he  presents  to  us  in 
Wallenstein  absolutely  historical  personages.  For- 
merly— so  Schiller  writes  about  it  “I  tried  to  replace 
wanting  truth  by  beautiful  ideality,  as  in  Posa  and 
Carlos, — here  in  Wallenstein  I will  attempt  to  make 
amends  for  the  want  of  ideality  by  positive  truth.” 

This  striving,  however,  of  Schiller  after  historical 
truth  which  grew  with  him  into  enthusiasm  whilst 
he  was  occupied  with  composing  this  work— also 
indicated  out  the  path  which  the  Artist  had  to  strike. 
A mere  illustration  to  the  words  would  not  have 
been  sufficient.  The  Artist  would  have  run  the  risk 


40 


WALLENSTEIN. 


of  representing  the  actor  of  the  part  instead  of 
Wallenstein  himself.  Mr.  Jaeger  escaped  this  danger 
by  producing  a composition  which  bears  the  stamp 
of  an  historical  painting,  worthy  by  its  monumental 
9 character  to  adorn  the  walls  of  a palace  as  a fresco. 
The  vigorous,  broad,  pithy  style  of  drawing  is  of  a 
pleasing  effect,  because  it  is  entirely  in  keeping  with 
the  character  of  that  age,  and  renders  the  deeply 
affecting  gravity  of  the  represented  scene  so  much 
more  conspicuous.  There  is  no  figure  wanting,  none 
to  which  we  should  like  another  place  assigned.  Even 
the  many  subordinate  objects — as  the  chandelier  han- 
ging down  from  the  ceiling,  or  the  hat  and  sword 
of  Illo,  rather  tend  to  enhance  the  total  impression 
than  to  impair  it. 

The  action  itself  is  too  well  known  to  require 
any  particular  explanation.  The  scene  is  at  the  close 
of  the  fourth  act,  and  represents  Max  Piccolomini, 
after  manfully  struggling  between  duty  and  love, 
yielding  to  the  latter,  and  thereby  preparing  for 
himself  an  early  death  before  the  enemy. 

‘•You  have  chosen  to  your  own  destruction; — 

Who  follows  me,  must  be  prepared  to  die!” 

are  the  words  he  calls  to  the  Pappenheim  cuirassiers 
who  had  pressed  into  the  ducal  chamber  to  deliver 
their  Colonel  from  the  hands  of  the  apostate  leader 
of  the  Catholic  army.  They  are  magnificent  figures, 
these  Pappenheimers, — iron  like  their  age  and  ar- 
mour. To  Piccolo  mini’s  youthful  enthusiasm  the 
mour  and  motionless  figure  of  the  Duke  forms  a 


WALLENSTEIN . 


4i 


striking  contrast,  and  renders  him — as  in  the  drama, 
so  here  in  the  illustration — the  chief  person.  His 
resolution  is  not  to  be  shaken , even  not  by  the 
imploring  words  of  his  sister.  But  his  countenance 
betrays  the  bitter  disappointment  he  feels  by  the 
loss  of  his  dearest  friend.  He  seems  to  have  some 
foreboding  that  with  Max  fortune  has  forsaken 
him.  But  he  is  in  the  iron  grasp  of  ambition 
and  offended  pride,  and  thus  prevented  from 
choosing  the  better  and  safer  way.  How  touching 
is,  on  the  other  hand,  the  tender  affection  of  the 
mother,  the  Duchess,  which  urges  her  to  hasten  to 
the  assistance  of  her  daughter  who  is  about  to 
faint  in  the  bitter  pangs  of  her  heart;  whilst  Illo 
and  Terzky  follow  the  faithless  leader  with  looks 
of  indignation  and  hatred. 


6 


The  Maiden’s  Lament. 


/ 


THE  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT  £3$>- 


$ 


The  Maiden’S  Lament. 


1 he  poet  and  the  artist  introduce  us  here  to  a com- 
bat of  the  elements.  Here  we  hear  the  groans  of  the 
old  oak-trees;  yonder  the  angry  waves,  lashing  the 
rocky  shore.  The  heaven  is  dark  and  threatening, 
occasionally  relieved  by  vivid  flashes  of  lightning. 
The  bird  seeks  the  secure  shelter  of  its  nest,  the 
beast  of  the  forest  its  den.  Man  alone  seems  regard- 
less of  the  mighty  commotion,  when  his  heart  is 
bleeding  in  bitterest  sorrow;  and  both  words  and 
tears  are  all  expended  in  testimony  of  his  unutter- 
able woe.  In  such  a state  he  leaves  his  narrow 
home,  and  finds  his  language  in  the  howling  of 
the  tempest , the  roaring  of  the  waves  which 
silence  the  anguish  of  the  soul,  direct  the  eyes  to 
heaven,  seeking  from  there  consolation. — And  pre- 
sently the  dark  clouds  disperse,  a bright  star 
arises  in  the  horizon — whispering  to  the  despair- 
ing heart:  “that  beyond  the  sky  the  lost  ones 
live;  and  that  he  will  soon  there  join  them/’ — Near 
the  sea-shore  we  notice  a Maiden,  her  aching  head 
pressed  in  her  hand.  She  has  no  more  tears  for  the 


46 


THE  MAIDEN’S  LAMENT 


lover  whom  yonder  treacherous  waves  engulfed. 
From  this  spot  she  waved  the  last  parting  kiss  to 
him,  whom  stern  duty  called  away  from  her  side. 
Here  she  had  many  a day  anxiously  looked  for  the 
flag  so  dear  to  her;  and  here  it  was  that  on  a night 
like  the  present  she  heard  the  alarm-guns  of  a dis- 
tressed crew  amidst  the  roaring  thunder;  and  here 
a'gain  in  the  morning  following  this  disastrous  night 
— the  waves  now  pacified  brought  near  the  shore 
the  wrecks  of  the  lost  ship— together  with  the  cruel 
tidings  of  lost  happiness.  Many  a day  did  the  dis- 
consolate Maiden  resort  to  this  place,  weep  long  and 
bitterly,  until  her  eyes  now  dim  with  tears,  no  lon- 
ger wept  — and  she  in  blank  despair  accused  high 
heaven  of  having  not  only  robbed  her  of  her  earthly 
bliss — but  in  her  misery  refused  her  consolation. 
But  on  this  day  she  meditates  upon  the  happiness 
once  her  own — the  pleasant  hours  which  passed 
away  at  her  lover’s  side. — Peace  visits  the  troubled 
soul  and  gratefully  she  turns  her  eyes  to  heaven,  in 
recognition  of  past  happiness. 

Thus  calmed  she  repeats  in  silence: 

“Let  flow  the  useless  course  of  tears, 

No  mourning  will  arouse  the  dead! — 

The  truest  balm  for  a bleeding  heart — 

After  the  joys  of  sweetest  love — 

Are  the  pains  and  wailings  of  love!” 


The  Youth  at  the  Brook. 


The  Youth  at  the  Brook. 


Schiller’s  immortal  genius  presented  the  world  with 
two  jewels,  in  composing  the  highly  tragic  epic — the 
Maiden’s  lament — and  the  pretty  idyl  entitled  as 
above.  It  is  no  mere  accident  which  placed  these 
poems  in  Schiller’s  works  side  by  side.  They  are 
parts  of  a great  picture,  descriptive  of  the  sad  com- 
mencement, and  the  tragical  termination  of  love.  In 
the  former  we  pity  the  mourner  whose  hopes  are 
laid  in  the  tomb  from  where  there  is  no  return. 
Here  we  sympathize  with  the  fate  of  a youth,  striv- 
ing after  the  possession  of  a happiness  almost 
beyond  his  reach;  and  whose  otherwise  joyous  spring- 
time is  clouded  with  a great  sorrow.  The  Maiden’s 
lament  is  lost  in  the  contest  of  the  elements — but 
here,  above  the  thousand  voices  of  nature  resounds 
the  yearning  Adagio  of  the  Youth  at  the  Brook. 
Like  Jaeger  in  the  former  illustration,  so  here  Pixis 
succeeded  admirably  in  relating  the  story  which  the 
few  verses  of  Schiller  suggest  in  one  single  figure. 
Here  sits  the  youth  near  the  rushing  brook,  his  sor- 
rowful countenance  bespeaks  his  troubled  heart. 

7 


50 


THE  YOUTH  AT  THE  BROOK. 


Opposite  to  him,  on  an  almost  inaccessible  rock  is 
the  proud  castle  of  the  Baron,  in  whose  splendid 
apartments  the  loved  one  dwells.  Here  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  wood  stands  the  youth’s  entire  fortune 
— a little  hut — his  sole  inheritance.  He  is  unable  to 
offer  the  Lady  anything  beyond  a faithful  heart 
and  a strong  arm — but  will  that  propitiate  the  pride 
of  the  noble  father? — He  can  never  hope  to  win  the 
prize.  He  looks  out  for  messengers  that  shall  at 
least  tell  the  fair  one  of  his  love,  that  she  may  know 
what  makes  his  days  so  sad,  his  nights  so  restless. 
He  gathers  the  choicest  flowers  of  spring  which  grow 
near  him  in  the  shade  of  the  beech-trees,  to  bind  a 
fragrant  wreath;  but  despairing  of  success  with  such 
a trifling  gift  he  drops  them,  one  by  one  into  the 
rushing  brook, — all,  but  the  rose,  the  emblem  of  fer- 
vent love.  This  flower — he  says — shall  wither  in  her 
hand  and  tell  her  what  these  lips  may  not  utter. 
Perhaps  the  rose  will  move  her  heart,  and  she  will 
follow  me  in  God’s  free  nature,  where  thousand 
voices  sing  of  love;  where  thousands  of  flowers  adorn 
her  path — and  she  will  soon  forget  her  father’s  castle 
content  and  happy  by  my  side,  for: 

“There  is  room  enough  in  the  smallest  hut 

For  a happy,  loving  pair!” 


The  playing  Infant. 


-OCA. 


THE  PLAYING  INFANT 


The  playing  Infant. 


One  of  the  best  of  German  authors,  Jean  Paul,  says: 
“There  are  three  roads  leading  to  happiness.  The 
first  going  upwards,  is:  to  ascend  far  above  the 
clouds  of  life,  so  that  the  external  world  with  its 
numerous  pitfalls,  its  charnel-houses  &c. — appears 
deep  below  our  feet  not  larger  than  a tiny  garden. 
The  second  is:  to  drop  straight  down  into  this  little 
garden,  and  to  make  one’s  abode  so  homely  in  a 
furrow,  that,  in  looking  out  of  this  snug  lark’s  nest, 
one  sees  also  nothing  of  the  world’s  pitfalls  and 
charnel-houses,  but  only  the  golden  ears  of  corn. 
The  third  is:  to  use  the  two  alternately.”  This  latter 
road  Art  is  to  show  us.  Schiller  well  understood  how  to 
draw  beautiful  pictures  of  everyday  life,  and  exhibit 
them  by  the  magic  lantern  of  his  poesy  in  their 
rosiest  hues.  This  little  poem  belongs  to  that  class 
in  which  the  poet,  true  to  the  descripton  of  his  con- 
temporaries— appears  as  a highly  amiable  man.  It 
was  necessary  for  the  artist  who  engaged  to  produce 
an  illustration  to  these  verses  to  know,  like  the 
poet,  how  to  speak  to  our  hearts.  He  has  well 


54 


THE  PLAYING  INFANT. 


acquitted  himself  of  the  task.  We  are  introduced  into 
such  a little  garden,  where  a happy  couple  far  away 
from  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  great  world,  have 
their  habitation.  The  old  hunting-lodge  in  the  midst 
of  the  forest  affords  no  prospect, — it  is  a little  world 
in  itself.  When  the  ordinary  duties  of  the  Forester 
call  him  from  home,  his  young  and  handsome  wife 
visits  a favorite  spot  not  far  away,  and  resting  on 
a mossy  stone  beside  the  rustling  brook,  playing 
with  her  little  son,  forgets  care  and  sorrow — which 
steal  into  every  home — in  a mother’s  joy  and  happi- 
ness. When  late  in  the  day  the  father  returns  he 
loves  to  watch  his  wife  and  child  and  silently  thanks 
heaven,  which  in  return  for  honest  toil  has  blessed 
him  with  quiet  domestic  happiness.  He  smiles  at 
the  zeal  of  his  little  son  who  tries  to  imitate  his 
father  in  his  occupation; — for  children  love  to  do  so, 
— not  knowing  or  even  caring  to  know  the  object 
of  it. — Perhaps  the  father  thinks  of  the  time  when 
this  happy  boy  of  his  must  face  the  world  and  enter 
upon  the  serious  business  of  life, — when  he,  despair- 
ing of  success,  will  often  writh  disgust  fulfil  the  du- 
ties of  a station  chosen  by  himself.  Therefore  he 
grudges  not  the  boy  the  short  and  happy  time  of 
innocent  pleasure;  and  calls  to  him: 

“Play,  my  boy,  for  soon  enough  thy  work  commences, 

The  arduous  and  serious  Task  of  life. 

And  to  comply  with  the  demands  of  duty 

Both  inclination  and  courage  often  fail!” 


Expectation, 


' 


w 


'a> 


<5 


i> 


<< 


I v. 


Expectation. 


In  the  biographies  of  Schiller  we  find  no  distinct 
allusion  to  the  love  by  which  that  cycle  of  poems 
was  caused  which  begin  the  so-called  third  period. 
We  may,  however,  justly  assume  that  they  were  not 
addressed  to  a mere  ideal.  The  anxious  doubt 
between  hope  and  fear  described  in  this  poem,  the 
various  delusions  in  which  an  excited  imagination 
indulges,  were  evidently  penned  under  the  impres- 
sion of  what  actually  happened.  That  the  Lady 
who  had  gained  the  affection  of  the  poet — already 
a middle-aged  man — belonged  to  the  upper  circle  of 
society,  his  two  other  poems,  the  “Meeting”  and 
the  ‘‘Secret”,  remove  every  doubt.  From  this  point 
of  view  the  subject  was  conceived  by  the  artist  who 
undertook  to  portray  the  moment  in  which  the  ex- 
pectant lover  is  relieved  of  his  uncertainty. 

“And  softly,  as  if  coming  from  celestial  heights, 

The  hour  of  bliss  appears.” 

We  recognise  in  the  picture — though  the  artist 
no  doubt  intentionally  avoided  a strict  resemblance 
— the  poet  himself,  seated  on  a stone  bench  in  a 
vine-arbour,  through  whose  leaves  the  silvery  moon- 

8 


5$ 


EXPECTATION. 


light  softly  steals.  His  weary  head  has  sunk  upon 
his  right  hand,  whilst  the  left  rests  carelessly  on  the 
back  of  his  seat.  The  half-closed  eyes  betray  a state, 
preceding  slumber  and  always  following  the  dis- 
appointment of  high  expectations.  To  this  melancholy 
figure  the  object  of  his  love  forms  a most  effectual 
contrast.  Frolic,  cheerfulness  and  love — and  even  some 
pity  for  the  sufferer  whose  patience  had  been  sorely 
tried,  are  reflected  in  her  pretty  face.  Over  the 
whole  appearance  of  the  Lady  a grace  and  loveli- 
ness are  effused  which  fully  comment  on  the  feelings 
of  the  poet. 

“Thus  did  she  appear  unseen, — 

And  aroused  by  her  kisses  the  friend!” 

Yet  not  without  a little  roguery  is  this  accom- 
plished, for  she  first  gently  touches  the  cheek  turned 
away  from  her,  in  order  to  make  the  slumberer  turn 
to  the  side  where  she  is  not.  In  calling  attention 
to  the  delicate  features  of  this  easily  intelligible  com- 
position, and  the  full  comprehension  of  the  poem  by 
the  artist,  we  must  also  point  out  the  high  technical 
merit  of  the  picture.  How  successfully,  for  example, 
has  the  moonlight  been  represented ; the  beauti- 
ful fountain  and  every  part  of  the  personal  attire 
especially  the  delicate  veil  which,  instead  of  a warm 
neckerchief  Schiller’s  beloved  has  carelessly  bound 
round  her  neck.  Every  leaf  of  the  arbour,  and  every 
fold  of  the  dress  evince  an  equal  care  and  most 
admirable  finish  — which  render  this  illustration  one  of 
the  most  successful  of  this  work. 


The  Maiden  from  Afar. 


The  Maiden  from  Afar. 


I he  well-known  Artist,  an  ever  welcome  guest  to 
high  circles,  and  consequently  familiar  with  high-life, 
has  shown  his  masterly  skill  in  depicting  the  domes- 
tic life  of  the  upper  classes  in  a very  attractive 
manner.  In  this  picture,  however,  he  tried  to  repre- 
sent an  absolutely  ideal  figure.  The  task  was  so 
much  more  difficult,  as  scarcely  with  any  show  of  dis- 
tinctness can  be  said,  whom  or  what  the  Poet  meant 
by  the  Maiden  from  afar.  The  poem  itself  seems 
to  indicate  that  Poesy  was  meant; — Apollo  also  made 
his  appearance  first  to  shepherds;— the  third  verse: 

“Her  presence  gladdened  every  heart, 

And  widened  every  breast. 

But  her  dignity  and  loftiness 
Prevented  familiarity” 

appears  even  to  justify  such  supposition.  However, 
the  beginning  of  the  poem  which  designates  Spring 
as  the  usual  time  of  the  Maiden’s  appearance,  would 
not  be  consistent  with  that  conjecture.  No  doubt, 
when  Spring  awakes  nature  from  her  winter  sleep 


THE  MAIDEN  FROM  AFAR. 


the  heart  of  man  is  likewise  filled  with  joyful  agita- 
tion; it  is  better  fitted  for  accepting  of  what  is  good 
and  beautiful  and  consequently  more  susceptible  to 
the  noble  gifts  of  poesy.  But  this  feeling  does  not 
die  with  Spring  and  even  not  when  earth  again  has 
donned  her  sombre  dress.  Poesy  is  not  bound  to 
place  or  time.  Others  thought  the  Maiden  to  be 
Spring  itself.  However,  Spring  has  no  fruits  to  dis- 
pense. The  nearest  approach  to  right  interpretation 
may,  perhaps  be,  taking  the  mysterious  being  for 
the  embodied  Joy  of  life.  It  revives  in  Spring,  fills 
the  old  man’s  heart  with  youthful  desires,  the  vigo- 
rous man’s  with  new  hopes,  and  arrives  at  its  climax 
in  juvenile  souls  to  which,  for  the  first  time,  the 
paradise  of  love  is  opened. 

As  the  Poet  has  left  the  interpretation  of  his 
Maiden  to  our  own  imagination, — so  also  the  Artist 
will  not  impose  his  opinion  upon  us  by  investing  the 
figure  with  any  distinguishing  attribute.  He  contents 
himself  with  presenting  to  us  a female  endowed  with 
every  grace — the  kind  fairy  of  the  fable,  wandering 
through  the  valley  with  bounteous  hands.  Her  hea- 
venly appearance  is  still  more  favourably  set  off  by 
the  buxom  country-lass  and  the  smart  lad  who  look 
up  to  the  divine  figure  with  awe  and  joy.  When  the 
Artist  borrowed  the  scenery  from  the  Bavarian  High- 
lands, as  it  seems  indicated'  by  the  thatching  of  the 
huts,  peculiar  to  that  country,  his  object  undoubtedly 
was  to  render  the  foreign  aspect  of  the  maiden 
whose  antique  attire  would  by  no  means  be  surpris- 


THE  MAIDEN  FROM  AFAR.  63 

ing  in  a classic  landscape,  more  conspicuous  and 
effective.  But  in  doing  so  he  at  the  same  time  came 
nearer  to  Schiller’s  intention  who  did  not  wish  us 
to  recognise  in  this  maiden  an  inmate  of  Olympus 
but  an  Ideal  living  and  working  in  our  mind  even 
at  the  present  time. 


The  Song  of  the  Bell. 


The  Song  of  the  Bell. 

INTRODUCTION. 

On  a fine  morning  in  the  year  1799,  the  master  bell- 
founder  of  Apolda  near  Jena,  was  aroused  from  the 
attention  with  which  he  watched  the  progress  of  the 
melting  bell-metal  in  the  furnace, — preparatory  to 
the  casting  of  a new  bell  for  the  principal  church 
of  the  capital, — by  a pleasing  voice  exclaiming:  “Good 
day  to  you,  master!  may  I come  in?”  At  the  saluta- 
tion of  the  stranger  the  bell-founder  turned  from  the 
furnace,  and  approached  the  visitor  bare-headed, 
offering  to  shake  hands.  “Welcome  to  you,  Sir” — 
replied  the  master.  “I  could  not  have  a better  omen 
for  the  success  of  my  casting,  than  the  arrival  of 
you,  heaven’s  favorite.”  The  stranger  was  ‘Friedrich 
Schiller’, — who,  tempted  by  the  beautiful  weather,  had 
taken  a walk  from  Jena  to  Apolda.  In  spite  of  his 
guest’s  attempt  to  prevent,  the  bell-founder  summon- 
ed his  daughter  to  prepare  some  refreshment  for 
his  welcome  visitor.  Soon  Wilhelmina  appeared  with 
the  best  the  house  could  afford,  placed  it  before 
Schiller  whom  she  greeted  with  unaffected  pleasure; 

9* 


68 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BELL . 


yet  also  with  an  expression  of  profound  respect. 
The  works  of  the  poet  she  kept  together  with  other 
treasures,  elegantly  bound  in  a glass  case.  “A  charm- 
ing girl” — observed  Schiller — when  she  had  left  the 
room.  “She  is  that” — replied  the  father — “pretty  and 
good,  like  her  departed  mother.  I should  not  know 
what  to  do  without  her.”  “Then,  rejoined  the  poet, 
she  will  make  some  day  an  excellent  wife.  Has  some 
future  son-in-law  already  announced  himself?“  “Pro- 
fessor, replied  smilingly  the  father,  young  people 
have  always  some  secret  game  behind  the  backs  of 
their  parents,  and  we  must  patiently  await  the  issue.” 
“And  have  you  noticed  anything  of  the  kind?” 
“Well — yes!  The  foreman  yonder,  a brave  and 
honest  young  man,  and  a relative  of  mine.  He 
possesses  a small  inheritance,  which,  together  with 
what  I am  able  to  leave  my  daughter,  will  suffice 
to  keep  them  from  want;  and  enable  him  to  carry 
on  the  business  as  a respectable  citizen.”  ‘Please, 
Master’, — called  one  of  the  workmen  from  near  the 
furnace.  The  bellfounder  hastened  to  give  advice 
and  assistance  in  the  important  work  in  hand. 
Meanwhile  Schiller  had  turned  his  eyes  through  the 
open  door  upon  the  scenes  of  the  street.  The  curl- 
ing smoke  from  numerous  chimneys  proclaimed  the 
approach  of  the  dinner  hour; — the  merry  voices  of 
children  returning  from  school  greeted  his  ears. 
They  seemed  to  seek  in  their  innocent  mirth  some 
compensation  for  the  restraint  which  the  school  hours 
imposed.  Presently  another  sight  presented  itself. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BELL. 


69 


A wanderer  dusty  and  tired  emerged  from  a narrow 
street, — a youth  with  blue  eyes,  and  curly  fair  hair. 
He  carried  in  his  hand  a stout  stick,  and  a well 
supplied  knapsak  on  his  back.  He  approached  the 
workshop  and  inquired  for  the  master.  Announcing 
himself  a fellow-craftsman,  he  asked  for  employment. 
Schiller  was  attracted  by  the  voice  of  the  stranger, 
and  recognised  with  pleasure  his  native  dialect.  He 
warmly  grasped  the  hand  of  the  youth,  and  offered 
him  the  glass  of  wine  intended  for  himself.  After 
a short  interrogation  the  stranger  was  installed  a 
fellow-workman.  During  these  transactions  the  heart 
of  Schiller  had  been  powerfully  stirred.  The  sweet 
pictures  of  his  own  home  appeared  before  his  mind. 
He  seemed  to  recognise  in  the  little  town  of  Apolda 
his  own  native  Marbach; — the  gentle  hills  of  the 
valley  of  the  Saal  reminded  him  of  the  rough  moun- 
tains of  the  Suabian  Alps.  The  thought  of  his  dear 
mother  filled  him  with  tender  emotions.  He  remem- 
bered his  sister,  whom  he  left  a child,  and  who  must 
now  have  grown  into  womanhood.  He  remembered 
the  time  when  he,  obedient  to  the  call  of  the  Muses, 
had  secretly  made  his  escape  from  Stuttgart— poor 
in  pocket,  rich  in  hopes.— His  friendly  reception  at 
Karlsruhe,  his  quiet  happiness  at  Bauerbach,  and  his 
first  success  at  Leipzig, — all  these  various  pictures 
of  the  past,  one  after  another,  appeared  before  his 
mind’s  eye. — He  was  reminded  of  manifold  sorrows 
and  hardships  too;  but  could  also  with  grateful 
modesty  acknowledge:  That  he  had  not  in  vain  striv- 


70 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BELL . 


en  after  his  high  object,  that  his  hopes  had  been 
realised:  he  was  honored  and  loved  as  a teacher, 
a celebrated  poet,  a happy  husband  and  father.  It 
was  the  life  of  man — much  tried,  much  agitated, — 
which  was  passing  before  his  mind.  Greatly  moved 
he  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  pencil,  and  depic- 
ted life  with  all  its  joys  and  sorrows,  with  its  hopes 
and  disappointments;  and  presented  us  with  an  effu- 
sion from  our  own  souls,  calling  it: 

“The  song  of  the  Beil.” 


Mother’s  Love. 


^£XL»l 


MOTHERS  LOVE  } 


Mother’s  Love. 

There  he  is  lying  and  kicking  about,  the  little  dar- 
ling,  naked  as  in  the  hour  of  his  birth;  his  future 
still  wrapped  in  darkness.  Life  appears  to  him.  in 
rosiest  hLes.  It  resembles  the  spring  morning,  the 
warm  rays  of  whose  sun  are  softly  stealing  through 
the  round  panes  of  the  window  into  the  homely 
room.  It  is  certainly  a comfortable  nest,  in  which 
the  little  citizen  of  the  world  has  been  born.  The 
offspring  of  well-to-do  people,  to  judge  by  the 
condition  of  the  chamber  which  has  everywhere  the 
appearance  of  comfort  and  neatness.  Even  the  fat 
bullfinch  on  the  top  of  its  cage  proves  that  here  no 
pressing  want  stunts  the  joy  of  childhood.  With 
what  a happy  face  the  mother  looks  at  her  darling! 
How  carefully  does  she  now  lift  the  napkin,  and 
then  again  quickly  drop  it  on  him;  for  she  is 
playing  with  her  dearest  one  at  hide  and  seek. — 
How  perfectly  acquainted  she  is  with  all  his  wants, 
and  how  eager  to  satisfy  them.  Hunger  will  very 
soon  start  the  first  tears;  but  her  half  uncovered 
bosom  shows  that  she  has  thought  of  it.  Washing 

io 


74 


MOTHERS  LOVE . 


over,  she  will  nurse  him  at  her  breast.  And  when 
by  degrees  the  little  eyes  become  heavy,  she  will 
put  him  in  his  cradle,  and  lull  him  to  rest, — but  her 
loving  gaze  will  still  rest  on  the  slumberer,  and  a 
happy  dream  may  yet  keep  the  dear  face  before  him. 

Even  as  Schiller  in  the  few  words: 

“The  mother’s  love,  and  tender  care, 

Watch  o’er  his  golden  morning”;  — 

describes  a mother’s  affection  and  joy, — so  the  Art- 
ist has  portrayed  in  the  two  figures  all  the  feelings 
of  the  heart  of  that  happy  one  whom  heaven  has 
blessed  with  its  choicest  gift  of  matrimony.  And  not 
only  will  mothers  gaze  with  pleasure  at  the  lovely 
picture, — the  man  also,  whose  heart  has  been  harden- 
ed by  the  storms  of  life,  will  silently  contemplate  the 
scene,  and  perchance  think  of  the  mother  long  ago 
laid  in  the  silent  tomb. — It  will  become  a household- 
picture,  to  which  the  father  will  lead  his  son,  should 
he  forget  his  mother’s  wishes  and  injunctions, — and 
will  say  to  him:  “See,  my  son,  thus  your  mother 
with  true  affection,  tended  you,  when,  a helpless  child, 
you  were  lying  in  your  cradle.” 


The  Farewell. 


10* 


The  Farewell. 


1 he  ardent  wish  of  the  mother,  that  heaven  would 
bless  her  with  more  children,  has  not  been  fulfilled. 
Hence  the  little  fellow  whom  we  saw  cushioned  in 
the  previous  picture,  has  for  many  a year  to  amuse 
himself  alone;  until  the  father  adopted  a poor  orphan 
cousin  as  his  own  child.  After  the  first  natural  shy- 
ness has  worn  off,  the  children  become  fervently 
attached  to  each  other.  They  share  their  little  joys 
and  sorrows,  and  seem  inseparable.  By  and  by 
the  time  comes,  when  the  boy  must  attend  school; 
and  Mary  is  full  of  joy  when  some  time  afterwards 
she  is  allowed  to  accompany  her  elder  brother. 
He  would  assist  her  in  her  lessons,  and  she,  in  return, 
does  everything  to  please  him.  In  the  course 
of  time  Mary  has  to  aid  her  mother  in  "her 
household  duties, — whilst  the  boy,  in  a higher  school, 
is  sorely  troubled  with  syntax  and  Cornelius  Nepos. 
Mary  would  still  continue  to  meet  her  brother  on 
his  way  from  school,  and  attend  to  his  wishes  at 
home.  But  some  change  has  come  over  him.  The 
boy  seems  no  longer  grateful  for  the  attention  of  his 


78 


THE  FAREWELL. 


adopted  sister  and  not  unfrequently  repays  it  by 
wanton  raillery.  He  would  appear  at  times  to 
be  ashamed  of  her  society;  and  a feeling-  of  sad- 
ness comes  over  the  girl.  Yet  she  still  hopes  to 
regain  the  old  affection,  but  in  vain.  The  strict 
discipline  of  school  allows  no  other  outlet  to  his 
exuberant  boyish  temper,  than  teasing  his  good- 
natured  sister.  And  how  the  boy  hates  this  re- 
striction which  appears  to  destroy  every  germ  of 
awaking  independance!  How  he  longs  to  be  free, 
to  wander  unrestrained  in  the  world!  Whenever 
he  stood  upon  the  neighbouring  heights  and 
gazed  upon  the  distant  hills,  behind  which  the  spires 
of  several  churches  were  visible— he  would  think 
of  a different  people,  dwelling  there,  accustomed  to 
modes  of  life  other  than  his  own.  To-day  at  last  his 
wish  has  been  fulfilled,  and  he  is  obout  to  start  on  his 
journey,  his  own  master,  no  longer  under  an  irksome 
restraint.  Although  he  has  anxiously  looked  forward 
to  this  day,  his  heart  is  heavy,  when,  on  parting, 
he  promises  to  follow  his  fathers  advice.  And  when 
he  offers  a farewell  kiss  to  his  mother  he  weeps 
aloud.  But  he  tears  himself  from  her  embrace,  and 
dries  his  last  tear.  The  mother’s  heart  is  almost 
broken  with  anxiety  and  sorrow;  but  the  father 
looks  with  pride  upon  his  son,  and  tries  to  comfort 
her,  saying:  “He  will  keep  his  promise.”  On 
taking  leave  of  his  early  playmate  Mary,  his  former 
cheerfulness  revives;  and  he  endeavours  to  hide  his 
emotions  under  good-natured  jokes,  when  he  observes 


THE  FAREWELL. 


79 


the  tears  in  Mary’s  eyes.  Even  now  he  shows  no 
gratitude;  he  has  not  a word  of  affection  for  the  sor- 
rowing  maiden;  but 

“Vom  Maedchen  reisst  sich  stolz  der  Knabe.” 

It  is  not  tillin  after  years,  when  he  stands 
alone  in  the  world,  when  many  hopes  have  been 
disappointed,  when  he  is  troubled  with  want  and 
care, — that  he  thinks  of  her,  and  repents  of  his  cold- 
ness in  return  for  her  sisterly  affection.  Although 
the  Artist  depicts  a time  when  patriarchal  customs 
still  prevailed, — he  has  nevertheless  presented  to 
us  a picture  from  our  own  life.  Men  will  re- 
collect the  high  expectations  with  which  they  set 
out  upon  their  journey  of  life,  when  they  first  left 
the  paternal  roof.  Mothers  will  think  of  the  absent 
ones,  alone  to  battle  with  the  adversities  of  life. 
May  they  never  do  so  with  a feeling  of  grief! 


I 


The  Return. 


The  Return. 


The  Artist  presents  to  us  again  a charming  picture 
of  simple  family-life.  The  little  snug  oriel  is  known 
to  us  as  the  favorite  place  of  the  father  where, 
after  the  day’s  labour  he  enjoys  a quiet  hour  with  his 
family.  It  is  Sunday  to  day,  as  may  be  seen  by  the 
broad  cloth  frock  and  neat  white  cap  of  the  mother, 
and  the  fresh  flowers  with  which  Mary  has  adorned 
the  Crucifix.  Supper  is  just  over,  but  the  snow-white 
table  cloth  has  not  yet  been  removed.  “I  wonder, 
observes  the  mother — if  our  absent  son  has  enjoyed 
his  meals  to-day?” — and  she  casts  a sad  glance 
upon  the  vacant  place,  formerly  occupied  by  him. 
She  thinks  with  a sigh  of  the  many  years  he  has 
been  away.  The  father  smiling  at  the  question  of 
the  mother,  relates  some  merry  stor)'  from  his  own 
time  when  he  was  sowing  his  wild  oats,  to  assure 
the  sorrowing  mother  that  young  people  rarely 
suffer  want — even  when  purse  and  knapsack  are  well 
nigh  empty.  On  this  occasion  he  praises  the  timo  of 
this  own  early  life,  when  young  men  had  more  spirit 
than  now,  he  called  t,  as  usual,  ‘the  good  old  time’. 


84 


THE  RETURN 


In  compliance  with  ancient  usage,  the  father  desires 
Mary  to  read  a prayer  from  the  prayer  book;  to 
which  he  listens  with  becoming  earnestness,  but  also 
with  the  satisfaction  of  a man  who  can  say  that 
he  has  spent  his  life  well,  and  attained  what  he 
aimed  at.  But  the  modest  mother  includes  in  the 
prayer  her  good  wishes  for  her  absent  child.  The 
dog  “Spitz”,  acquainted  with  the  rules  of  the  house, 
listens  with  as  much  attention  as  a dog  is  capable  of, 
he  is  even  angrily  snapping  at  a fly,  which  by  its 
buzzing  interrupts  the  stillness.  But  now  he  hears 
suddenly  quick  approaching  steps,  and  jumps  towards 
the  door,  through  which  at  the  same  moment  a tall 
youth  enters.  Who  could  recognise  in  the  stately 
figure,  in  the  manly,  handsome  face  of  the  traveller, 
the  beloved  son?  Nobody  believed  him  to  be  so  near; 
for  in  his  last  letter  there  was  no  intimation  of  his 
return.  The  neighbours  could  not  have  recognised  him, 
for  none  had  greeted  him.  The  servants  of  the  house 
followed  him  silently  with  their  looks  ? not  knowing 
who  he  was.  And  now  on  entering  the  dear  old  room, 
he  is  received  by  the  savage  barking  of  ‘Spitz’. 
Even  his  own  father  looks  almost  angrily  upon  the 
intruder  who  dares  disturb  them  in  their  prayers 
— for 

“Fremd  kelirt  er  heim  in’s  Vaterhaus.” 

But  no!  The  foreboding  heart  of  the  mother  tells 
her  who  he  is,  and  she  hastens  to  press  the  returned 
wanderer  to  her  heart.  The  two  most  precious  tears 
sparkle  in  her  eyes — those  of  a mothers  happiness, 


THE  RETURN 


85 


and  a mother’s  pride.  There  in  the  corner  of  the 
room  stands  Mary.  She  also  has  recognised  him  at 
once.'  With  her  eye  cast  down  she  silently  awaits 
his  g'reeting;  for  she  does  not  think  it  becoming  a 
maid  to  make  advances  towards  a young  man.  He 
will  do  so,  but  full  of  astonishment  he  stops.  Is  that 
the  same  Mary , the  little  chubby  girl  he  had  left? 

“Und  herrlich,  in  der  Jugend  Prangen, 

Wie  ein  Gebild  aus  Himmelshoeh’n, 

Mit  zueclitigen,  verschaemten  Wangen 
Sieht  er  die  Jungfrau  vor  sich  steh’nd4 

He  forgets  his  usual  bantering  tone  in  which  he 
formerly  had  spoken  to  her;  and  released  from  his 
mothers  embrace,  and  after  having  heartily  shaken 
his  father  by  the  hand,  he  timidly  approaches  Mary. 
He  can  utter  in  a faltering  voice  only  a few  polite 
words — he  hardly  ventures  to  look  into  her  eyes  or 
seize  her  hands.  His  former  arrogance  has  disap- 
peared. 


Courtship. 


Courtship. 

]VIary  probably  understood  why  the  greeting  of  her 
cousin  on  his  return  was  so  very  polite,  and  no 
longer  so  warm  as  in  former  times,  for  even  an  inno- 
cent girl  has  a quick  perception  in  such  matters. 
Now  the  time  had  come  when  she  might  effectually 
punish  him  for  his  former  petulancy,  and,  as  all 
revenge  is  sweet,  she  tormented  him  to  her  hearts 
desire.  When  he  endeavoured  to  be  amiable,  she 
would  be  perverse;  when  he  was  civil,  she  would  appear 
formal,  when  he  sighed,  she  laughed  at  him  and  ren- 
dered his  heavy  heart  still  heavier.  But  so  it  has  been 
always.  Women  wish  to  be  won.  Our  friend  was 
subject  to  the  common  lot.  The  day  which  brought 
him  safely  back  to  his  father’s  house,  revealed  to 
him  the  beauty  and  virtues  of  his  cousin  Mary.  Her 
possession  would  make  him  extremely  happy.  But 
how  could  he  obtain  this  treasure?  In  his  wander- 
ings he  had  greeted  many  a damsel,  and  received 
many  a smile  in  return,  but  with  Mary  he  could 
never  succeed.  When  he  wished  to  converse  with 


12 


go 


COURTSHIP. 


her,  his  eyes  were  pensively  fixed  upon  her,  but  his 
tongue  remained  silent,  for  he  pictured  to  himself  his 
happiness  at  her  side,  built  many  castles  in  the  air,  till 
Mary  at  last  would  arise  and  dash  them  down  with  the 
remark:  “Well,  cousin,  to-day  you  have  been  again 
very  entertaining/’  This  would  make  him  very  un- 
happy, he  would  reproach  himself  with  want  of  cour- 
age, and  resolve  on  the  next  occasion  to  ask  frankly 
the  all-important  question.  Alas!  the  time  came,  and 
once  more  his  courage  failed.  He  had  moreover 
nobody  in  whom  he  could  confide,  or  ask  counsel  of. 
From  his  friends  he  feared  ridicule;  from  his  father 
almost  reproaches;  and  in  the  trusty  counsel  of 
his  mother  he  had  not  sufficient  confidence,  fearing 
she  might  interpret  his  sufferings  as  idle  thoughts. 
Again  it  is  Sunday.  His  young  companions  have 
invited  him  to  some  rural  feast,  but  their  mirth  and 
noise  annoy  him.  He  wishes  to  be  alone  with  his 
sorrow.  He  longs  for  solitude.  In  the  fields  and 
woods,  through  which  he  directs  his  weary  steps, 
everywhere  above  and  below,  he  hears  signs  of  joy 
and  love,  and  should  he  be  a solitary  mourner? — No, 
he  would  not  let  the  day  pass  without  having  de- 
clared his  love.  He  had  often  prepared  speeches  and 
selected  poetry  in  which  he  hoped  to  convey  his 
passion ; but  whenever  he  was  in  the  presence  of 
Mary,  he  seemed  altogether  unable  to  utter  a word. 
Presently  his  searching  eye  lights  upon  the  flowery 
meadow,  and  he  sees  himself  helped  out  of  his  dis- 
tress: 


COURTSHIP. 


9i 


“Das  Schoenste  sucht  er  auf  den  Fluren, 

Womit  er  seine  Liebe  schmueckt!” 

The  flowers  shall  speak  in  his  behalf  and  inform 
Mary  of  what  he  endures  for  her  sake.  Should  she 
accept  the  trifling  gift,  he  would  be  assured,  that  his 
hopes  have  not  deceived  him.  And  straightway  he 
hastens  to  his  father’s  garden,  where  he  knows  he 
will  find  Mary  alone  to-day.  At  sight  of  her,  he  hides 
himself  behind  a tree;  he  is  greatly  agitated,  he 
hesitates.  Presently  he  hears  Mary,  unconscious  of 
his  presence,  softly  utter  his  name,  not  in  derision 
or  ridicule.  This  encourages  him  to  emerge  from 
his  hiding-place,  and  with  the  bunch  of  flowers  in 
his  extended  hand,  he  sinks  at  her  feet  asking: 
„Mary  will  you  be  mine?” 


12 


Happy  Moments. 


=6>y/ 


r 


Happy  Moments. 


This  is  a picture  in  which  the  Artist  has  put  all  the 
poetical  sweetness,  all  the  tender  pathos  of  Schiller’s 
words: 

“O  zarte  Sehnsucht,  suesses  Hoffen! 

Der  ersten  Liebe  golcl’ne  Zeit! 

Das  Auge  sieht  den  Himmel  offen, 

Es  scliwelgt  das  Herz  in  Seligkeit; 

O,  dass  sie  ewig  gruenen  bliebe, 

Die  schoene  Zeit  der  jungen  Liebe!” 

with  so  much  delicacy  of  feeling  and  consummate 
beauty,  that  the  observer  must  feel  affected  with 
deep  emotion.  There  is  nothing  trite,  and  yet  nothing 
strange  in  it.  It  is  the  ideal  of  happiness;  the  high 
festival  of  the  soul,  such  as  we  picture  or  have  pic- 
tured to  ourselves.  The  lovely  landscape  which  is 
in  perfect  harmony  with  the  scene , the  exquisite 
drapery  of  these  handsome,  peaceful  figures,  the 
wreath  of  flowers  in  the  hair  of  the  maiden  everything 
shows  an  equal  warmth  of  conception,  and  an  equally 
elaborate  manner  of  treatment.  Indeed,  no  suitor 
will  for  the  future  be  at  a loss,  like  our  friend,  for 
means  to  express  his  love.  He  will  simply  present 
to  the  object  of  his  affection  this  picture,  and  say: 


g6 


HAPPY  MOMENTS. 


“Let  us  be  as  happy  as  they  are.”  And  there  is  but 
little  fear  that  a request  thus  made,  will  meet  with 
a refusal:  Mary  too,  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart 
to  torment  her  cousin  any  longer.  To  be  sure,  girls 
have  many  an  ‘if’  and  ‘but’,  as  a last  resort  in  a 
siege,  ere  they  unconditionally  surrender  to  the  be- 
loved enemy.  But  no  seeming  obstacles  will  daunt 
a resolute  suitor;  for  they  may  easily  be  removed. 
That  Mary’s  near  relationship  cannot  be  any  hind- 
rance, he  clarly  proves  by  citing  similar  unions — her 
scruple  about  her  poverty,  he  will  not  entertain — and 
her  apprehension  that  his  parents  will  withhold  their 
consent  to  the  union  on  account  of  that  poverty,  he 
simply  refutes  by  leading  Mary  to  them.  The  day  on 
which  the  father’s  consent  and  blessing  have  been 
obtained,  and  the  good  mother  with  tears  of 
joy  has  embraced  her  happy  children;  the  pair  are 
walking  proudly  and  openly  for  the  first  time,  arm 
in  arm,  through  the  streets.  They  heed  not  the  idle 
gossip  of  curious  friends  and  neighbours;  but  ascend 
the  hill  from  which  the  boy  had  years  ago  so  long- 
ingly  gazed  on  the  wide  world.  He  no  longer 
desires  to  roam  about;  his  own  home  has  become 
more  than  ever  dear  to  him.  The  happiness  he 
sought  among  strangers  in  vain,  he  found  at  the  side 
of  Mary.  The  girl  that  he  once  left  with  such  an 
easy  heart,  has  opened  for  him  the  gates  of  heaven 
on  earth;  and  in  the  consciousness  of  his  happiness 
he  said  gratefully  to  her:  “Mary,  I shall  never  leave 
you  again,  I will  always  love  you.” 


The  Bridal  Procession. 


— <H>4 


^ THE  BRIDAL  PROCESSION ^>- 


- 


The  Bridal  Procession. 


Although  it  is  very  likely  that  not  a few  fond 
mothers  may  have  secretly  envied  Mary's  happiness, 
for  the  sake  of  their  own  daughters;  still  on  this  day, 
when  Mary  follows  her  bridegroom  to  the  altar,  all 
signs  of  jealousy  disappear.  On  her  stepping  forth, 
beaming  with  joy  and  beauty,  all  evil  tongues  are 
silent.  Words  only  in  praise  of  her  exquisite  dress, 
her  trinkets,  nay  even  of  her  virtue  are  heard. — 
Love  generally  commences  in  stillness  and  secrecy, 
but  likes  to  have  its  sacred  bonds  tied  openly  and 
solemnly.  The  marriage-day  is  the  true  festival  of 
life,  and  here  the  happy  bridegroom  is  greeted 
with  kind  words  and  wishes  from  all.  Friends  have 
secretly  adcrned  the  hall  of  the  house  and  the  com- 
panions of  the  bride  have  embroidered  the  piece  of  car- 
pet for  them  to  kneel  on  at  the  altar.  The  father  and 
mother  appear  young  again  in  the  prospect  of  hap- 
piness for  their  son,  and  live  their  own  wedding-day 
over  once  more.  Curiosity  has  attracted  a crowd  of 
neighbours.  Children  have  for  a while  forsaken  their 
play,  and  are  strewing  flowers  along  the  path  the  happy 

13* 


IOO 


THE  BRIDAL  PROCESSION. 


pair  must  tread;  and  when  the  procession  has  entered 
the  church  they  will  in  their  own  childlike  way  play 
bride  and  bridegroom.  The  little  girl  leaning  over  the 
rails  so  far  that  her  pretended  husband  is  obliged  to 
hold  her,  has  already  adorned  herself  with  a crown. 
Every  one  present  is  greatly  interested  in  the  pro- 
ceeding, and  no  signs  of  impatience  are  visible.  At 
last  the  musicians,  heading  the  procession,  strike  up, 
followed  by  the  bridegroom,  leading  Mary  by  the 
hand.  They  are  hailed  with  loud  and  joyous  shouting. 
Of  all  the  beautiful  maids  that  accompany  her,  she 
is  the  most  beautiful.  Splendid  is  her  dress,  costly 
her  golden  girdle  and  crown,  an  heirloom  of  the 
family  of  which  she  has  become  a member;  grace- 
ful is  her  carriage  and  gait,  and: 

“Lieblich  in  der  Braeute  Locken 
Spielt  der  jungfraeuliche  Kranz, 

Wenn  die  hellen  Kirchenglocken 
Laden  zu  des  Festes  Crlanz.” 

We  can  hardly  fancy  a more  beautiful  memorial 
of  the  bridal  day  than  this  cheerful,  well-conceived 
picture  of  the  artist  Mueller,  in  which  mirth  and  earn- 
estness are  blended,  as  on  the  day  whose  celebration 
it  represents.  Happy  that  couple  who  can  say  when 
looking  at  this  picture  in  after  years:  “The  hopes 
we  then  cherished  have  not  been  disappointed.” 


The  Mother’s  Cares. 


The  Mother’s  Cares. 


“Und  drinnen  waltet 
Die  zuechtige  Hausfrau, 

Die  Mutter  der  Kinder 
Und  herrschet  weise 
Im  haeuslichen  Kreise, 

Und  lehret  die  Maedchen, 

Und  wehret  den  Knaben  — <£ 

Once  more  we  cast  our  eyes  upon  Mary,  but  no 
longer  the  petulant  girl  of  former  days,  nor  the 
happy  bride.  Many  years  have  passed  away,  and 
Mary  is  a mother.  However,  she  has  preserved  her 
cheerful  disposition  and  loveliness, — though  just  now 
her  brow  is  knit  in  looking  at  the  little  ‘good  for 
nothing’  who  has  taken  his  sister’s  pear,  and  con- 
ceales  his  face  behind  the  picture-book.  He  does  per- 
haps not  wish  his  mother  to  see  that  he  is  just  now 
commencing  to  eat  the  stolen  pear — or,  will  he  first 
taste  the  sweetness  of  the  fruit  ere  the  rod,  hanging 
at  the  back  of  his  mother’s  chair  is  felt?  It  is  pos- 


104 


THE  MOTHERS  CARES. 


sible,  for  just  now  the  little  sister  says  'with  a 
troubled  countenance:  “Mamma,  Max  has  taken  my 
pear!“  But  his  whole  punishment  will  propably  be, 
that  he  gets  no  lunch  to-day.  Sad  enough  for  him, 
since  he  thought  to  have  earned  it  by  teaching  his 
younger  brother  the  A,  B,  C, — and  had  already 
come  as  far  as  the  second  letter  of  the  alphabet. 
The  tasks  of  the  elder  sisters  are  not  quite  so  easy. 
The  eldest  a striking  resemblance  to  the  mother,  has 
just  finished  hemming  a cloth,  and  fetches  another 
for  which  she  looks  for  room  on  the  table  where 
the  mother  has  laid  a heavy  silk  bed-cover,  which 
is  to  replace  the  old  one  upon  the  bed  of  the  father, 
for: 

“Und  fueget  zum  Guten  den  Glanz  und  den  Schimmer.” 

Opposite  the  mother  sits  the  second  daughter, 
busily  engaged  in  knitting.  She  glances  at  Max  with 
a look  that  seems  to  say:  “A  good  flogging  would 
do  you  no  harm,  for  you  are  always  naughty.”  And 
what  shall  we  say  of  the  little  one,  who  so  content- 
edly sits  upon  his  cushion  on  the  floor?  He  also 
has  fairly  earned  his  lunch,  for  it  was  no  little 
trouble  to  cause  such  topsy-turvy  state  of  a whole 
town  and  soldiers  and  horses;  besides  the  work  of 
sounding  a bell,  and  rolling  a large  ball  about  the 
room.  Well,  for  all  this  labour  the  nurse  will 
presently  bring  him  a bowl  of  warm  milk.  On 
taking  leave  of  this  peaceful  work-room,  we  must 
acknowledge  that  the  mother  knows  well  how 


THE  MOTHERS  CARES.  105 

to  make  home  truly  happy  and  attractive.  How 
bright  and  clean  is  every  thing,  not  a particle  of 
dust  on  the  floor,  no  spot  upon  the  dresses  is  per- 
mitted; and  the  open  linen-press  shows,  that  the 
ample  store  which  a kind  aunt  had  given  her  on  her 
wedding  day,  has  not  only  been  preserved,  but 
largely  increased. 


14 


Harvest-Home. 


14* 


w 


'S' 


>> 


<Y/ 


,v> 


Harvest -Home. 


Schiller  after  having  represented  in  the  first  part 
of  his  Lay  of  the  Bell  the  life  of  an  individual,  turns 
in  the  second  part  to  the  life  of  the  people,  and 
shows  us  the  bright  and  the  dark  side  of  it.  The 
consequence  was  that  the  Artist  was  obliged  to  drop 
figures  that  had  become  familiar,  and  even  dear  to 
us,  and  to  pass  from  representing  the  quiet  of  domes- 
tic life  to  picturing  the  lively  stir  of  the  people. 
The  two  young  girls  only,  looking  on  so  wistfully  at 
the  dancing,  remind  us  of  Mary,  now  a sedate  house- 
wife. They  would  surely  join  the  merry  dancers, 
were  not  the  “careful  aunt”,  that  inevitable  appen- 
dage to  every  respectable  family,  standing  behind 
them  as  an  unseasonable  check.  But  all  the  people 
here  are  strangers  to  us,  except  the  fiddler,  an  old 
acquaintance  of  ours,  who  headed  Mary’s  bridal  pro- 
cession; and  who,  in  spite  of  his  old  age,  appears  as 
full  of  merry  tricks  as  his  neighbour,  the  piper. 
Perhaps  he  anticipates  the  pleasure  of  being  pre- 
sent at  the  wedding  which  that  dancing  couple  be- 
before  him  may  celebrate  some  day.  For  do  not 


no 


BAR  VEST-HOME. 


their  faces  speak  of  happiness,  as  if  all  these  doings 
around  them  were  already  now  going  on  in  honour 
of  them;  though  their  love  may  be  of  no  longer 
standing  than  since  the  last  harvesting.  There  is  a 
jolly  time  now  down  in  the  dry  moat  of  the  old 
town,  in  the  shade  of  mighty  linden.  The  returning 
herd  is  just  passing  by,  and  the  young  herdsman 
and  an  inquisitive  goat  show  more  interest  in  what 
is  going  on,  than  the  respectable  looking  townsmen 
who  calculate  with  a knowing  eye  the  value  of  the 
last  laden  cart.  They  are  evidently  two  magistrates, 
representatives  of  that  “eye  of  the  Law”  that  watch- 
es over  the  weal  and  woe  of  the  inhabitants  and 
their  own, — Thus  Mueller  has  compressed  the  whole 
verse  of  Schiller  into  this  picture.  By  doing  so,  the 
place  for  dancing  has  certainly  turned  out  a little 
small;  and  our  modern  dancers  would  scarcely  put 
up  with  it.  However,  it  was  still  the  “good,  old 
time”,  when  all  were  moving  in  a small  compass; — 
why  not  also  in  a narrow  dancing  place? 


Schiller  at  Weimar. 


Schiller  at  Weimar. 


Kaulbach , as  well  as  Lindenschmit  represent  both 
the  Poets  in  the  act  of  celebrating  triumphs.  But 
Goethe,  the  favourite  of  the  Muses,  and  the  spoiled 
child  of  fortune,  could  feel  himself  as  victor  only  in 
the  midst  of  storming  applause 7 in  the  circle  of  a 
society  to  which  ordinary  people  had  no  admittance. 
Pie  looked  upon  the  admiration  of  the  multitude  as 
a tribute  only  due  to  him.  Kaulbach,  therefore,  se- 
lected the  scene,  when  Corona  Schroeter,  still  clad 
as  Iphigenia,  crowns  the  Poet  of  Tragedy  with  lau- 
rel, in  the  presence  of  the  applauding  Court.  Whereas 
Schiller  obliged  to  climb  the  rugged,  steep  road  from 
a military  surgeon  to  a favourite  of  the  German  nation, 
saw  his  greatest  triumph  in  the  esteem  of  the  most 
eminent  men  and  women  of  his  time,  and  still  more 
in  the  domestic  happiness  at  the  side  of  his  excellent 
wife. 


Some  of  his  happiest  hours  he  enjoyed  at  Weimar 
where  he  moved  to  in  1799.  Here  on  every  Wed= 
nes  day  afternoon,  surrounded  by  his  friends,  he 
could  read  to  them  whatever  news  the  Muse  had 


1 14  SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 

presented  him  with. — It  is  such  a meeting  Lindenschmit 
preferred  as  a subject  for  his  composition. — Above 
Schiller,  Musaeus  is  seen  leaning  over  the  balustrade. 
Carl  August,  and  Wilhelm  v.  Humboldt  are  approach- 
ing. Before  them  is  a very  attractive  group  of 
ladies.  Corona  Schroeter,  the  celebrated  actress,  is 
standing  behind  Frau  v.  Laroche  who  had  gained 
some  renown  in  German  Literature,  and  whose  ac- 
quaintance Schiller  had  already  made  when  at 
Mannheim.  On  her  left  side  Charlotte  v.  Kalb  is 
sitting,  the  reconciled  friend  of  our  Poet; — a lady  to 
whom  during  his  first  stay  at  Weimar,  he  bore  as 
tender  a love  as  Goethe  to  Frau  v.  Stein.  This  in- 
timacy, however,  was,  undoubtedly  to  Schiller’s  ad- 
vantage, interrupted  by  Charlotte  v.  Lengefeld,  who 
now,  a kind  hostess,  is  sitting  at  the  table.  Her 
head  is  lightly  resting  upon  her  arm;  her  eldest  boy 
in  her  lap,  whilst  she  looks  with  pride  mingled  with 
tender  care,  upon  her  husband.  Upon  her  shoulder 
is  her  sister,  Frau  v.  Wolzogen  leaning,  in  the  house 
of  whose  mother-in-law  at  Bauerbach,  Schiller  met 
with  the  first  friendly  reception  since  his  escape 
from  Stuttgart.  There  is  still  another  friend  at  the 
table,  in  the  foreground, . Frau  v.  Egloffstein,  a com- 
panion as  spirited,  as  she  was  amiable.  It  is  to 
her  the  Poet  seems  particularly  to  address  his 
words,  since  he  valued  her  judgment  very  highly. 
Between  Schiller’s  wife  and  Laroche,  Koerner,  the 
father  of  Theodor,  has  found  a seat.  He  came  fre- 
quently from  Dresden  to  see  his  dearest  friend.  Be- 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


115 

hind  him  Herder  and  Goethe  are  standing.  The 
Artist’s  reason  for  not  placing  them  more  in  the  fore- 
ground, is  to  let  Schiller  to  whose  memory  this 
Gallery  is  dedicated,  appear  as  the  only  chief  figure; 
and  by  doing  so  the  Artist  has  acquitted  himself  ho- 
nourably of  his  charge  which  was,  to  produce  a 
counterpart  to  “Goethe  at  Weimar.” 


Printed  by  Blir  & Hermann,  Leipzig. 


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